Morning
by vortirla
Summary: He's not always relishing this strange life, but somehow he makes it through. Another morning with Peter Petrelli.


A/N: This could be considered AU, depending on how you look at it, but it's more of an introspective than anything else. Written prior to the airing of Episode 1.19: .07, but mainly focuses on what we've learnt from up to 1.11: Fallout. This fic was for lj user 'deepwonderment' for the heroes holidays ficathon at livejournal. Reviews welcomed. :-)

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_Mohinder doesn't run, but he doesn't stay either. He shakes his head in disbelief, disappointment, and helplessness; his father could have stopped this._

_Simone runs forward. She's crying out desperately, a wild look in her eyes. She doesn't understand—would never understand._

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The sound of splashing water echoes against the bathroom walls. It gushes out of the tap wastefully, but Peter doesn't even notice. His hands are chilled at the touch of water, and he relishes the feeling. Closing his eyes wistfully, he splashes water on his face.

He _needs_ this.

Four precious seconds are spent pretending: he's not an empath, and Nathan can't fly. He has no idea who Claude is, and Dr. Suresh is just a man with outrageous theories. Simone is alive, even if it means she's with the drug-addicted Isaac. A cheerleader never needed saving, and neither does the world.

But all too soon he opens his eyes, and reality slaps him in the face.

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_Isaac's afraid. He only appears just to grab Simone and run as far away as possible. He's tried, but he, too, doesn't understand. The hero life is just too hard._

_Matt, the policeman, does his job. He holds up his hand:_ Stay away, stay away! _He has flashes of a home in Odessa, but this is far, far worse._

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He looks into the mirror, and the reflection staring back at him is not what Peter wants to see. At first glance there's no difference between his current reflection and that of one year ago, but he's stared at himself enough times to notice what's changed. He looks a little tired, but he's seen it before. His hair is longer than it should be, but it's not the first time he put off a trimming. No, instead, the change is a near unseen quality. Something he can't quite point out, but he knows is there. He knows of another world, and that's what different.

Based on appearance alone, _that_ is all that's changed—and it throws him off. He's painted the future, hovered in mid-air, been thrown over towers, fought a serial killer, and came back from the dead—and the fact he looks the same unnerves him. There is always that part of him that wants to be remembered, and going around the world and back has only made him realise it.

So when he looks in the mirror everyday and sees a Peter Petrelli who could have just secured a job as a hospice nurse, the pinch of disappointment is all too familiar.

He wants to look like he's made a difference.

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_DL is still as ignorant as he can be without forgoing his powers. He only focuses on getting his family away from this seriously wrong situation. Right now, that's all the concern he needs._

_Niki is the same. Saving Micah is the one thing she can wholly agree upon. But looking back, for a split second, she smiles. Niki doesn't smile._

_Micah holds onto his father, but there is an eerie calm about him. He's afraid, but he actually does understand. One day, he might really be someone._

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Peter sighs and finally turns off the tap; a world resource thanks him. He automatically reaches for a towel and roughly dries his face. He likes the awakening feeling the cold gives him, and doesn't want to wipe it away. With a grunt he retreats from the bathroom, systematically putting on today's set of clothing—including the day before yesterday's shirt and yesterday's pants.

_"For God's sake, just because you're a hero now doesn't mean you can't be even semi-clean,"_ Nathan once said. It was just another day when the younger Petrelli walked in with blood splattered on his face; he supposed the comment wasn't completely uncalled for.

Still, sometimes Peter wore the same clothing over and over just to piss his brother off. Partly out of fun (which he never had these days), and partly out of spite; because he knows Nathan doesn't think he's a hero at all. One time he wore the same pieces of clothing for an entire week, and the glares sent his way were as good as making his day. But then he happened to take a small whiff of his shirt and made a mental note to mix up his daily attire just a little bit.

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_Ando stands where Isaac once was. He stares at the impending danger pensively, and he doesn't move. He chooses to stay at Hiro's side; despite all his worry, this is how he rolls. _

_Hiro stares too, though there's a different look in his eyes: determination. They can still stop this, they have to. He's a hero, and he won't run._

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He hesitates when he moves for the front door. On some days, Peter would decide he doesn't have time to have breakfast; and on other days he feels like skipping his morning meal (or snack) would leave him splattered on the sidewalk. Today, the nagging voice in his head (sounding freakishly like his mother) wins out, and he grabs a bagel from the kitchen and stuffs an unhealthy amount of it into his mouth. He chews haphazardly and makes a face when the stale flavour registers. He really needs to clean out his kitchen—the rest of his apartment, too, now that he thinks of it.

A hyperactive thudding sound fills the air and Peter frowns. It takes him a minute to realise it's his phone on vibrate, and huffs out a muffled curse. He bolts back into his bedroom, swipes the cell from his bedside table and punches the answer button.

"Hul—" he gulps down a half chewed piece of bagel. "Hello?"

Peter rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm on my way now. No I—of course I know where it is. Yes. No I'll take care of it. I'll be there in twenty minutes. I _am_ on my way!"

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_Claire's running forward. There's a look in her eyes, like she can't believe this is really happening. Holding back tears she utters two words and turns away._

_Nathan refuses to leave. Out of everyone, he is the most composed; serious. The heat intensifies and yet he's still there. There's steel in his resolve. He's staying._

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He makes his way out of his apartment; phone in one hand, bagel in the other. "No, you don't need to send Hiro to pick me up." Peter takes a smaller bite from his bagel. "All right, see you there." He pushes the down button for the elevator. "Yeah, me too."

He hangs up.

_Ding._

The elevator is working for a change. Peter steps inside the claustrophobic compartment and leans slightly against the elevator wall. He has done so much, and yet there is still a frightening amount to do. Blessed (or cursed) with a few more moments of silence, Peter wonders what life would have been like if someone else had been the 'key' empath—if someone else had the prophetic dreams and acted like a sponge. If he just had the one ability.

Today he imagines what it would be like only to have Micah's powers. Perhaps it's just the influence of watching Niki and DL's son deal with his gift that helps Peter think it wouldn't make things harder. After all, the only complicated things in the young boy's life are the crazy antics and situations his parents pull themselves into.

But flying is still his favourite, and it bothers Peter that Nathan will probably never take advantage of it or show a little appreciation.

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_The streets are closing in. The rustles and shouts fade..._

_Silence._

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The elevator doors groan open and Peter lets himself out. Already he can hear the screeching of motorists and beeping of car horns; it's another New York day.

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_Hands are burning._

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Peter finally exits the apartment building and walks steadily amongst the crowd.

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_Sharp, hot, piercing pain._

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He picks up a newspaper from the news stand and passes the man a few coins.

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_Peter screams. _

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He continues walking; half concentrated on the path before him and bumps into a woman. She throws him an angry look.

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_It's __all his__ fault._

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Reaching the intersection, he feels a sense of déjà vu. He looks up and sees the setting of his dreams.

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_He can't do this._

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Closing the newspaper, he takes a deep breath and looks at the date printed on the top-right corner.

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_He can't save the world._

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'Wednesday, November 22, 2006'. Peter smiles slightly and turns back.

Or maybe he can.


End file.
